Long Live Flock & Roll - Straight Lines + Yearbook +Evarose Live at Camden Barfly

Straight Lines *****

Evarose *****

Yearbook ****1/2*

Barfly, Monday 15^th October

I sit alone in the restaurant window. The rain chases down the glass. The spitting chimney red tail lights and jaundiced sodium yellow street lamps spray colourful, kaleidoscopic shards through the descending droplets. A Jaques Brel song drones in the background, the Gitanes smoke clings acridly to my damp woolen trenchcoat. 

No it doesn’t. 

This is Nando’s. 

In Chalk farm. 

I’m eating extra hot chicken and it’s pissing down. On a Monday. I need cheering up.

So, to The Barfly. For my favourite librarians and most alt of alt rockers Yearbook.

Yearbook ****1/2*

Being first on is always a bastard. I’m still, after thousands of gigs, so annoyed by the über-cool insouciance of hipster gig goers. Arrive late. Don’t bother with the support. Act cool. Oh, fuck off.

What’s wrong with openly loving music? Supporting music? Opening our eyes, ears and any other supplicant orifice to new stuff? Exciting stuff. Tomorrow’s headliners. We really shouldn’t mind about showing it.

As I say; a bastard being on first.

Thankfully there’s a good few handfuls (handsfull?) of folk who’ve been arsed enough to get their rear ends into London’s most bijou of venues early doors. And what a treat they get.

Kicking off with the heart stopping and emotive All Squares and Circles (how is it humanly possible to get so much emotion into a refrain of Yeah, Yeah Whoah? Genius), the Hampshire quartet set about business as if they’re playing to a packed hall six or seven times the size. Which, if there’s any justice in the world, I’m sure they will in due time.

I’m not sure if front man Andy Holloway plays up the slightly gauche librarian geek-chic thing or if he’s genuinely like that, but his quirky charm and embarrassed sardonic murmurings between tunes are beguiling and unaffected which in a business full of arrogance, cock waving, faux-bravado and peacocks is a refreshing change.

The short set is polished and skillfully delivered but charmingly and purposefully frayed and shambolic at times. There’s not a duff track in there. This is original music. Interesting music. Technical but not shoe-gazing. Mesmerising. And the perfect antidote to my Jacques Brel-infused melancholy. Love ‘em to death and am thoroughly enjoying seeing them in the humbler smaller venues before the inevitable escalation and progression they’ll surely achieve. But at least I’ll be able to say, ‘of course, I saw them back in….’

Here’s a vid of the wonderful Visionary.

Evarose *****

Still on a grinning high after Yearbook, I settled down with a restorative pint for Evarose. Open minded to a fault, I have to admit, the whole Paramore pap punk thing leaves me a bit cold and what I’d previously heard of the all girl Oxfordshire steroidal Girls Aloud didn’t really tickle my frenum.

I’d seen a reduced acoustic version of the band at Burnout festival and was hugely impressed by Dannika Webber’s incredibly powerful and pure voice and hoped it would expand with the full band.

This is where it all gets a bit awkward. They don’t do anything wrong. Webber’s voice is incredible, pitch perfect and powerful. But I’m left with the lingering, possibly unfair and definitely controversial thought that the all girl novelty thing has probably rose-tinted the earholes a little.

The playing is competent and tight. But that’s about it. It lacks variety. Space. Light. Shade. Everything’s delivered within a very narrow dynamic. Mostly in the same key. And pretty much all in the same kick botty tempo. And even the wünder vocals become a little wearing and predictable. There are no rhythmic diversions, breaks, drops or shifts. After a while, it’s a bit like being in a dense pine forest. Initially enchanting and exciting, but becoming stifling and even a little toxic. Need air. Please….gulp…

That all said, I’m not in their fan target market and I’m sure they’ll continue to seduce younger and more pop punk sympathetic crowds as they honestly go about their business.

A good effort tonight, but sandwiched between two bands of such high caliber was always going to be a tall order.

Straight Lines *****

So, on to the top piece of bread in tonight’s sarnie. Like Andy Holloway of Yearbook, in Thom Jenkins, Straight Lines have got a killer weapon in their front man. Although stylistically far from similar, both crooners are blessed with dog-whistle high natural voices (as Thom's a sheep farmer, I'm sure it comes in handy). And they both use their range adroitly and spectacularly successfully.

Farmer Thom is a likeable and alluring leader and is backed by a beautifully talented and tight band. They’re heavy when they need to be. Harmonically rich. Melodically sublime at times and, well, just a pleasure to be in front of.

There’s an innate celtic theme running wittingly or otherwise through much of their work. And it even veers towards early Thin Lizzy in parts which cracks faces and warms hearts from the front to the back of Camden’s favourite sweatbunker.

Although the music is often complex, it’s never inaccessible and leaving obvious (and lame) comparisons with Stereophonics aside bestrides rock and pop with aplomb.

There’s luckily so much talent in the UK at the moment and on tonight’s remarkable performance, Straight Lines and Yearbook can add themselves to the bunch of top bananas.

As I walked out into the north London Drizzle, I hurt from smiling. What a wonderful evening. There really is hope.

Now where are those Gitanes?


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Higher And Higher. LTA and Don Broco Live Review Electric Ballroom

 

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Don Broco *****

The Dangerous Summer *****

Gnarwolves *****

October 11^th Electric Ballroom Camden

Rain. Loads of it. Scene kids. Hundreds of them. Anticipation. Palpable. Cider. Downed.

A sultry, soaked Camden was cut in two by a huge queue of buzzing yoof clutching all manner of luminous, toxic alcopops for one of the most eagerly awaited gigs since the last king died.

The house full sign had been posted weeks ago and the general energy and excitement rivals Jimmy Savile’s if he’d stumbled into a wendy house or a One Direction gig.

Gnarwolves *****

Anyway, first up were pop hunk gruff bastards Gnarwolves. There’s already a decent sized crowd waiting to be entertained and when the trio kicked off into the fabulous shout-alongy (if not ludicrously short) History is Bunk, but most faces look a tad non-plussed as the testicles out TNT-charged pop punky bombs were launched into the room.

A strange choice as support perhaps, but thankfully the crowd seemed to warm to the guys after the initial dissonant shock. The set continued apace and drew more bouncing heads with every grizzled, fierce fusillade.

There’s a vibrant hardcore-esque revival (did it ever go away?) bubbling under the surface at the moment and bands like Gnarwolves along with Polar, TRC, Real Adventures and Palm Reader are leaving a trail of caved in faces and brutally kicked genitalia wherever they ply their fine trade. And on tonight’s evidence, it seems to be set to gain a wider audience. Which can only be a good thing in the eternal fight against the anodyne, predictable and manufactured.

The Dangerous Summer *****

Talking of which, next on the Royal Variety Performance are The Dangerous Summer. Not familiar with their work, I was curious and willing to be impressed.

Bugger.

A sugary, tight, limp MOR melange was all they could drum up. A watery mix of Death Cab For Cutie, Nickelback and Creed with no guts, balls or edge. A muscle cock replacement powerful sportscar with a remote controlled car motor. A bottle of overproof Bourbon with tea in it. An oiled up, super flexible porn actress with saggy tits and a disappointingly huge hairy minge (Think Omar from ATDI up to his neck in quicksand). Disappointing. Lame. Meh. Shame, cos they drew a much bigger crowd than the excellent Gnarboys.

Don Broco *****

By now the cavernous Ballroom was packed from its head to its anus. It’s hard to imagine that it’s this rammed for a support act. But what a support act. 

Monsieur Duce and co must have thought they were on relatively safe ground asking the Bedford Babe Magnets to open for them when the tour was conceived 6 months or so ago. Don Broco have been treading the boards as a regular support act with everyone from Futures to Four Year Strong and have been staples on the festival tour. So they’d do a great hors d’oeuvre job. Get the juices flowing. Set the appetite nicely. You know, a prawn cocktail. Or Whitebait.

But my how they’ve grown. Since they were invited on the bill, the sublime Priorities Album has dropped, they’ve signed to Search And Destroy, had more positive press coverage than Mother Teresa and Princess Di put together. So there must have been a wince or two in camp LTA as Heston Blumenthal showed up with the starter at their own dinner party.

Seldom have I witnessed such fervour for a support act. In short, the place goes off its tits as Bobby D and his boys rip into set opener Priorities. Pretty much from front to back, the whole room bounces in unison. Pints are spilled, phones dropped, toes trampled girls probably accidentallly impregnated. Total joy. Total mayhem. Totally brilliant.

The set is pretty much all culled from the new album (with the exception of a brief tease of Beautiful Morning before the surprise drop into the always chaotic and fabulous Thug Workout – press up boys ‘n’ all). There is just so much swagger. So much fun. And so much talent. Theses guys have developed such wonderful stagecraft to complement their ridiculously good songcraft but, even allowing for hilarious synchronised moves, lunges and leers they never come over as arrogant or contrived. Just bloody nice blokes having a bloody good time. And producing bloody good music.

Massive sing-backs, mass shoulder-riding, walls of death, friendly but full-on pits and loads of bloody bouncing left the crowd spent. And by the time the anthemic and masterful set closer Actors was launched into the adoring hordes, the good time vibe rivalled the Olympic Stadium’s on super Saturday. A real game changer for the lads tonight. Of course they’re going to be huge, let’s just hope they stay as grounded and as genuine as they appear.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Despite the baying of LTA from the dripping full house for a good 10 minutes before the band’s arrival, you couldn’t help but be a little nervous for Mike and his gang. It’s irrelevant at moments like this, that they’re clearly one of the very best young rock bands in the land; after seeing what Don Broco had just done, it’s got to play on your mind and effect your manhood.

Thankfully there was no need to worry. No performance anxiety here. Despite a tiny initial sound problem, Mr Duce is monumentally and throbbingly erect as the four piece tear into the wonderful Love Someone Else. And the crowd play the supplicant and ridiculously moist bedfellow, cumming loudly and spectacularly with every distorted thrust.

The sexual gymnastics continue throughout drawing climax upon climax from the insatiable nymphomaniac throng. There is so much love in the room. So much lust. So much passion. Brilliant tracks from the masterpiece new album Changing Tune dovetail beautifully with old favourites like Far Q and (Motor)way of life. The gorgeous Dear Prudence joins the boys for the beautiful and haunting Scared of the Dark before the main set ends with like the deep droning and brown noise peppered surefire classic Normally Strange. 

 

By now the crowd has almost had too much. Is too full. Too raw. And there’s a strange, almost apologetic post coital silent fag break before the lads saunter back on and the seduction starts again with the gorgeous and pathos-ridden Another Sad Song. Duce looks and sounds genuinely humbled throughout the steamy session. The adoration for his band is, however, fully earned. And as the place ignites one more time to the comically fishy pun-heavy apparent paean to STIs Deadliest Catch, it’s genuinely difficult to quell the lumpy throat and the watery eyes. Genius stuff.

It’s rare to see such a brilliant performance from such a brilliant, original band. But tonight I’m proud and privileged to have been in the presence of two. And judging by the Beatlemania-like reception for LTA and Don Broco this evening, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling like that. Spine tingling.

Wish I smoked. Need a fag now.

The always fabulous Yearbook and Straight Lines up next.

More tunes soon. Bwooooar!

Secret Midgarden Party - Midgar, Empress and Fel Fiasco live review

Midgar ****1/2*

Empress **1/2***

Fel Fiasco ***1/2**

The Peel, Kingston Monday 8^th October 2012

A lick of Viennese Moonlight White, a thundering new rig and a run-around with the broom and The Peel has never looked better. All that’s missing is some jaunty Scandanavian scatter cushions and a couple of bowls of applewood potpourri.

Fel Fiasco ***1/2**

So, the first fresh-faced act on the freshly face-lifted stage are Devonians Fel Fiasco. A diminutive waif-like female with a ferocious and frighteningly fierce…oh fuck it, enough already with the f-based alliteration. Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, a tiny girl with a mahoosive voice. And thankfully not hewn out of the hackneyed pap punky drawl of the many Hayley-pretendamour-a-likes. This girl’s definitely got some originality, a whopping pair of lungs and a truly impressive range all delivered with delicious clarity.

However, it’s not totally all about little Lianna Carnell; the band strut out a heady mix of fare ranging from proggy passages to theatrical spaciousness. Heavy when needed, but not overly reliant on arse-throbbing dropped tunings and hi-gain, they really display a genuine potential. The only minor criticism would be the songcraft isn’t yet fully baked. A few more refrains, choruses, memorable or sing-a-longy bits would make the whole thing even more palatable. I look forward to seeing them develop. Yummy stuff though.

Empress **1/2***

The toilet tour can be a desperate and unforgiving right of passage. Empty rooms, Ginsters on the hoof, sleeping in shitty foul-stinking vans. Which’ll always break their timing belts on motorways in the middle of buggering nowhere.

And those who embark on the odyssey need big respect and all the encouragement they can get. It’s easy to sit piously clutching a refreshing glass demanding to be impressed and firing off criticism like some louche, buttery-lipped restaurant critic. So I won’t.

Tonight, Empress, while not being the next Lower Than Atlantis or Deaf Havana, try manfully to plough through an energetic, if not totally original set to a depressingly near-empty room. Some ill-judged gruff screaming aside, they pile through a polyrhythmic, interesting and challenging buffet; which is most appetising in the more melodic, harmonic proggy stretches, (which, for anyone old enough could be compared to a harder Caravan).

So they tried.  And they probably drove for miles to be here. In the shitty, foul-stinking van with the dodgy timing belt. And let’s hope they keep trying. Guys (and gals) like Empress are essential to the future of live music. Proper music. Real music. Honest music.

Midgar ****1/2*

I get very angry about Midgar.

Not because they’re named after a world in a polypropelene-trouser-wearing, nerdy-trekkie-billy-no-mates computer game. But because there’s absolutely NO reason why they shouldn’t be huge (Ok, well, as huge as ‘alt’ or underground can be).

So, the anger turtle popped its head out again tonight because the music loving, decent-minded fraternity weren’t out in their hundreds. Idiots. Even though it’s a Tuesday. In the lower, shadier reaches of Kingston’s colon. There’s no excuse for not having your soft organs beautifully yet brutally rearranged by this classically-influenced, original, classy and fabulous foursome. Even if their name is from dubious parentage.

Saying all that, by the time the lads took to the newly Duluxed Deluxe stage, the crowd had swelled to a half decent smattering of worshippers and it had no effect on the brilliant bombast that followed.

A collection of ‘old’ favourites served alongside some glorious new fare stuffed the faces of the gathered faithful. Wonderful rhythms, bowel-lossening beatdowns, orchestral and ornamental cadenzas and anti-aircraft gun guitar and drum assaults were all delivered with precision, panache and penetration a priapic Ron Jeremy would be proud of (arsehole alliteration attack again, apologies!). And all supporting and augmented by Andy Wilson-Taylor’s ethereal, pitch-perfect and bewitching vox.

There was even a pit. Well, a kind of pit.

So, how are we going to get this lot the respect, exposure and crowds they deserve? If the new material on show tonight is anything to go by, the (hopefully) forthcoming album should do a lot of the heavy lifting, (airplay and interweb circulation permitting) but anyone who’s reading this, please check them out and spread the word (start here). They’re genuinely unique, genuinely über-talented, and (even though the Jager had addled my bonce a bit by the end of tonight’s tour de force), I seem to fuzzily recall they were genuinely nice blokes as well. 

Really can’t urge folk enough to seek these guys out. They need to be out there more. Can’t wait for the album. And Can’t wait to see them again. Brilliant stuff tonight. But we need MORE!!!!!

LTA, Don Broco et al next.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar.

Our Time Has Come - An evening of pop punk reviewed

Our Time Down Here *****

Real Adventures *****

British Teeth *****

The Fighting Cocks Kingston 4^th October 2012

Anyone who’s regularly digests my word farts or anyone who’s stumbled on them before will know that generally I don’t do the whole ‘genre’ thing. Ok, it can be useful when trying to describe bands, but the spuddy obsession with taxonomy and post this, melodic that and protopseudohardcoresoftbollocks crapola ultimately descends into Top Trumps, Pokemon-collecting geeky nerdiness at best but indulgent, unnecessary, ridiculous and walled garden Trekkie wank at worst.

Tonight, the broadest of churches that is ‘Pop Punk’ is proof positive that we need to get over the whole classification thing. The three bands I caught all supposedly purport to dwell in the pop punk back streets but offer such a wide range of noise, techniques and delivery, it clearly renders the ‘genrification’ pointless.

Before we kick off, got to say that I missed a couple of bands on Melody Pop’s well crafted bill, so apologies to Royal Fisticuffs and Home Advantage, the lure of faux Nando’s and booze proved just a little too much.

British Teeth *****

Clegg..let's open this shit up...

So, on walks an angry looking shaven dude. Covered in some fine ink. Head, neck, all sporting a fine array of craftsmanship. Looks aggressively punkily promising. 

We’re off…well, sort of. Don’t get me wrong the playing, the melodies were all there or there abouts; but despite Chris Graham’s serial murderer lifer looks, it all was a bit, well, nice.

I have to declare my hand at this point, I’m not a punk. And not really a ‘punk’ fan. I like loads of it. But have always struggled with the paradoxical anti-music, nihilism thing. That’s not to say that there hasn’t been some absolutely astonishing punk to light up our world. But in a genre built on attitude, you’ve either got it; or you ain’t. And while British Teeth go through the motions, they’re about as far from punk as could be.

The poor sods also experienced a tech nightmare when a bass string broke and had to gauchely ‘pad’ for two or three minutes while it was remedied. But the chat was all terribly polite. It was like having five Nick Cleggs on stage reminiscing about terribly amusing dorm underpant disasters.

Even a brave attempt to use a harmonica as a firelighter failed to get the heart racing and the flames burning. Hopefully, they’ll develop. Get an edge. Find more attitude and confidence. But at the moment, it feels like they’re an underdeveloped young wine. A nice wine. But in no way a punky bottle of fiery, lip-blistering unholy moonshine.

Real Adventures *****

Talking of developing; Guildford’s newest noisy bastards (file, if you must, alongside Polar and Palm Reader) are gathering a real momentum. They get sharper, tighter, sparkier and just better every time I see them. 

Tonight may slightly lack the overall boom of their tour-de-force at Burnout Festival back in July (largely due to a smaller, if not more dedicated crowd this evening), but they set controls to kill and, as an actual performance, it’s probably even better.

Despite struggling with man flu, Lewis Reynolds, the heavily inked Heroin-chic Big Issue salesman livewire frontman, leads by example, characteristically delivering his fierce growls and dervish hardcore moves from the room’s floor among the snap-back wearing acolytes.

This lot bristle with energy, talent and excitement. There is truly no way on God’s earth they should be described as pop punk. But if they feel comfortable with it, then so be it; suffice to say they truly bring a fresh and original twist to a rapidly tiring and fading derivative genre. Brilliant, original and spellbinding stuff.

Our Time Down Here *****

Now this lot really are pop punk. Standard. Good. But standard. All the boxes are ticked. Chuggy Green Day bits. Tick. Double time, chaotic drumming. Tick. Catchy melodies. Tick. Jangly bits. Tick. Riffs. Tick. Whiny downtown Brooklyn vox (albeit with Will Gould’s southern British twist which, at times, is strangely reminiscent of Carl Barat). Tick.

There’s nothing wrong with OTDH. But nothing startlingly right either. Juxtaposed with the originality and clever schtick of Real Adventures, they suffer by comparison. There’s nothing that new here. Nothing that truly marks them out or makes them genuinely memorable.

In fairness, not really my sort of thing, but they produce an energetic set that’s enthusiastically lapped up by the rucksack-sporting throng.  But I suppose my lingering feeling of mild disappointment stems from the tightness of the genre. So many bands strangely stick to the tried and tested. The expected. For a genre surely meant to be based on restlessness, change, challenge and sticking it to the man, there seems to be too much sticking to the plan.  Real Adventures don’t do it. Others need to learn. Don’t just break rules. Ignore them. Or even deny their existence.

Amen.

Lower Than Atlantis, Gnarwolves and Don Broco next. Can’t wait.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Xtra Yummy. The Xcerts & Yearbook live at The Borderline review

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The Xcerts*****

Yearbook*****

Saul Goodman****1/2*

More Than Conquerors***1/2**

The Borderline, London Thursday 13^th September

There are some things you keep going back for. Even though you’ve got a pretty good idea what to expect.

You know what a piece of hot buttered toast is going to taste like. But the toaster gets fired up regularly. You know the Bill Hicks DVD will cause a thoughtful laughter-induced aneurism. But, the curtains and ring pulls get pulled and the BlueRay pressed into action. And you know that slightly sad but soothingly woozy feeling you get when you get to the last mouthful of a bottle of ’79 Aloxe-Corton. But the cork gets lovingly drawn and the glugging commences.

So, the tantalising thought of one of the UK’s finest young rock bands performing their fabulous album Scatterbrain is exactly the same. And one that a packed Borderline obviously agrees with. So, corks popped and Dualits turned on….

More Than Conquerors***1/2**

Tonight’s revelry starts with Ulstermen More Than Conquerors. Their gilt-edged, proggy alt Biffy-esque, at times mathy jaunt draws a decent early throng and they fire a volley of catchy energy bullets stage left right and centre. A crackling start to proceedings culminating with a drum-off and the cheeky chappy guitarist and front man taking to the venue floor.  Great stuff.

Saul Goodman****1/2*

So, what next? Who is Saul Goodman? A hitherto undiscovered Canadian acoustic balladeer? A blind deep jungle-trance electro moshcore visionary from Tel Aviv? A cross-over Country and Western pedal steel player ? Nah. It’s those damned tinkers The Xcerts them very selves. So what are the trio doing supporting themselves? As it were.

Saul Goodman...tinkerman

Well, they only treat the packed room to a taster of some future goodies. Four  unreleased bombs are primed and tossed into the baying  collection of hipsters, musos, acolytes and by the look of it, a Who’s Who of the Brit scene at the moment with, among others, team LTA and Deaf Havana keeping the beer pumps, well, pumping.

The new stuff is huger than ever. A heavier and bigger bombast underpins chest-beating hooks and STI-like infectious refrains. A tantalising amuse-bouche and thrilling portent of even greater things to come from the lads. Brilliant and bed-wettingly exciting stuff.

Yearbook*****

I was lucky enough to catch Yearbook at Dom Patience’s triumphant Burnout Festival in July and was duly knocked out and more than a little love struck. Having heard a smattering of their oeuvre thanks to the unsigned-pushing-heroic hairy bastard  Alex Baker on Kerrang! Radio I’d already warmed to this quirky and passionate bunch of weirdnik library geek troubadours. But wasn’t fully prepared for their live animation of their work.

And tonight was even finer. The totally original sound, constructs, tunesmanship and general freshness genuinely set these lads apart from the trailing pack of competent Canterbury-esque schmoove rockers or clichéd dropped D clean/scream emometalaltpostrockcore.

Mesmerising throughout, thought-provoking and musically masterful; they marry massive choruses with plaintive fragility switching effortlessly into goose-bump inducing heavy-boned emotional rawness.

Chief librarian and singer Andy Holloway leads from the front and possesses such an original and elastic voice. Ranging between Bombay Bicycle Club, ATDI, Weezer and pitched in the same raw ultra high balcony as Andrew Groves from Arcane Roots

Like a fabulous and engaging Iain Banks novel, their set (albeit a shorter support set) takes you on a journey drenched in pathos, humour, raw power, anger and just general weirdness. Brilliant and mesmerising. Can’t wait to see them again. As a headline act.

The Xcerts*****

So, the main toast next. And not much needs to be said. It’s comforting. Gorgeous. Familiar. And as tasty as ever. But tonight they’ve dug out that once-in-a-lifetime brilliant country loaf and used the very finest posh Normandy butter. There is not one crumb that’s not the most delicious imaginable.

The album has never sounded better. Ranging and veering wildly between light and shade. Explosive fusillades and pure, pared-down emotion. Light tuneful singalongy OO OO OO OOs in Slackerpop and the darker, morose timbre of the beautiful and heartfelt Lament provide perfect illustrations of the massive breadth of offering.

The crowd munch on every yummy slice. Dutifully and respectfully lending vocal back up where needed. And by the time the rapturous applause and wild adulation fades into a sultry autumn Soho evening, there isn’t a mouth smiling and whetted by the glisten of buttery deliciousness.

An over-used word; but an awesome performance, served lovingly by a truly awesome band.  Yum.

Small wonder – Burnout Festival

Burnout Festival*****

The George Andover

July 27^th-29^th 2012

Right, let’s get the scale thing out of the way first. The George is no Hammersmith Odeon. Or Knebworth Park. It has no portaloos. No asian noodle stalls. No fairground. No mud. It does have a fireplace though. And is about the size of Katie Price’s walk in wardrobe.

This is no ‘normal’ festival. And thank the lord for that.

Nearly 30 bands over a weekend in the bucolic surroundings of sleepy market town of Andover. It’s in Hampshire apparently.

The George...Venue of leg ends

Small in scale though it might be, it makes up for it in the grand scale of ambition and vision. And pretty much down to the cojones of one extraordinary bloke. Dom Patience is the Michael Eavis of the underground and alt scene. And has curated one of the most staggeringly exciting casseroles of noiseniks, ne’erdowells and new talent imaginable.

Before I kick off, a brief confession: I didn’t get to see all the bands. There, I said it. What a pussy. But my advancing years, over-burdened liver and need for the odd afternoon nap meant that, sadly, some of the acts would go unseen.

So, many apologies to the acts I didn’t get to haul my arse in front of, it really is no sleight or snub, just a failing, aging body and a pitiful withering of stamina. I can’t even blame any clashes, as the military-like precision of the organisation meant that there were no overlaps between the main stage and the acoustic stage.

Friday.

Anyway, the scene is set. The cider poured. The earplugs inserted. Let’s do this.

First up are Treasures*****

A fairly generic sounding tuneful bunch. Nothing too challenging as a starter. Prawn cocktail rather than snail porridge. Not dissimilar to Futures or Natives and even imbued with traces of Canterbury. There are bucketloads of tidy, competent bands like this lot and, to be honest, they’ve got their work cut out to compete with some of the already more established bands cluttering up the genre. They weren’t helped by technical difficulties either, but an SG was rushed to the accident scene to save the day, and, ironically probably helped beef up the sound compared to the omnipresent Telecaster-tinged sounds. A good start though. And a bloody good drummer.

Next up were Natives***** a really tidy, slick set of big tunes, exuberance and energy. Not going to set the world on fire but continued the good work of the recent tour with Futures and Don Broco. It’ll be really interesting to see how they develop and create a sustainable difference in a crowded niche. A really decent bacon sandwich.

Starters and sarnies consumed. Time for some red meat. And Burn The Fleet ***** offer the perfect sizzling sirloin with all the trimmings. Andrew Convey, resplendent in hideous Hawaiian shirt leads from the front, gurning, grimacing and growling through a mesmerising and brilliant set. The guys really look as though they’re having fun and it’s infectious; the packed pit shaking their collective wobbly bits and joining in with hearty sing-a-longs. By the time the anthemic Handfuls of Sand brings the tragically short set to a close there’s not a brow without a bead of lager-infused sweat or a face without a giddy smile. Yummy stuff.

Mallory Knox***** are next on the menu and judging by the outstanding single Death Rattle, their sound has filled out, been polished and perfected (thanks in no small way to the Jesus-like genius of Mr Daniel Lancaster’s knob twiddling and guidance) and they are emerging as a fully developed masters of the pop rock alt vibe.

Mikey Chapman, their beguiling and affable front man looks and sounds the part and ably supported by great harmonies, cracking tunes and a big, ballsy sound. Definitely more towards haute cuisine. A really decent fillet steak.

The crowd are certainly enjoying the fare and are gorging themselves in the hot kitchen and there’s a definite buzz building before the mighty Bedfordshire Brocan army invades the room.

By now the bijou venue is rammed to the rafters and salivating in drooly anticipation for tonight’s main course. The present darlings of the britrock scene Don Broco***** stride on stage and own it. And I mean totally own it.

There’s a swagger and a confidence about these boys that lights up the place. It appears to be so far from arrogance though. Thankfully. Rob Damiani makes every bloke in the crowds’ dicks shrink and wither like a salted slug. He’s impossibly cool, hench, good looking and probably hung like a hoover. But the collective jealousy is fashioned into a joyous adulation. There can be no finer feel-good band in the land at the moment and their tight, catchy, joyful blend of heaviness, harmony and technical excellence puts them so far ahead of the chasing pack that they genuinely are in a class of their own.

The new tunes sound huge and if the rest of the highly anticipated Priorities album lives up to the title track, Actors and Fancy Dress, then it will surely become album of the year. Their set is perfectly balanced and it’s a genuine pleasure to witness a full headline set rather than the standard support slot half an hour.

There are walls of death, push ups in the pit and general mayhem as everyone gets involved raising the already sweltering temperature and oozing out more sweat than Gary Glitter in a wendy house.

These lads work their toned arses off (#nohomo) and all the toilet venues and dingy cellars will soon be a thing of the past. They are destined for hugeness and tonight that’s exactly what they were. Huge. Fucking huge.

I just hope Rob’s actually got a dick like a sardine.

Saturday.

I’ve got to admit, I do struggle with the ongoing obsession with catergorising or pigeonholing bands down to micro genres. The needless clamour for creating complex phylums, species and genuses for music is as pointless as it is fucking annoying. Whether something is hardcore, post rock hardcore, post hardcore, metalcore or rotten fucking applecore is just so irrelevant. If it’s good, it’s good.

So, with that in mind, if you’re one of those nerdy, anal, sad bellends who gets hung up on the tribal taxonomy, then I’m sorry for offending your compulsions when I try and describe the bands on what is ostensibly a heavy Saturday.

I’ve also got to say, despite loving the heavier side of things from time to time (DEP, Architects, KSE and Parkway Drive being particular faves), dirty metallic stuff is not really totally my thing. So today was potentially not going to be too comfortable.

Add in the mutha of all hangovers and it was potentially going to hurt. Undeterred, I finally haul my rear end out of bed and dive into Death of An Artist ***** As I said, I’m not one for genres, but I suppose it’s relatively safe to call this lot metalcore. A classic (if not surely passing its sell by date) combo of clean vox and growly, grizzly shouty stuff accompanied by big riffs, spectacular breakdowns and blast beats. That said, they are pretty good at what they do. And an energetic and surprisingly tasty looking pit broke out for the last song. There was even a very heavily inked diminutive guest screamer for one song who I’m sure I’m supposed to know which other band he’s from. But I didn’t. Sorry. A pretty good start to the day though.

As the beer sweats and general queeziness ramped up, I have to admit, I retired to the acoustic stage for a wee while. I propped myself in the corner with restorative boozy tinctures and was treated to a mixed bag of strummers, singers and, well, non-singers.

The main non-singer culprit being Ben Mills from The Smoking Hearts who along with guitarist Paul Barrow formed Cynics Don't Build Pyramids *****manfully rambled their way through a chaotic set including a Bronx cover, forgotten lyrics and probably about 2 of the 2,000 notes actually hit by Mills. Painful at times but gameful stuff. (As an aside I saw a slice of the Smoking Hearts***** later when Mills, much more comfortable with hardcore screaming than louche melodic crooning actually took his mic into the alley outside the main room to scream his spleen out to the surprised smokers and suppers enjoying a sunny Saturday afternoon).

In contrast, Mark Betteridge *****(From Death Of An Artist) seemed much more comfortable acoustically, and although I didn’t manage to catch the whole set, his more melodic and plaintive sounds seemed to go down as well as the chilled mid-afternoon beverages. Nice.

A pillar. And Mike Foster.

Next up in the acoustic sanctuary is Mike Foster***** a larger than life, fun-filled cheeky chappy who, by his own admission, is too pissed to remember his set list and many songs. No matter, he cruises through half an hour of light-hearted crowd participatory fun and adds a sea of smiles to a good sized crowd’s collective fizogs. Especially his pointed and hilarious piss-take of the omnipresent Frank Turner. And he even did a Dopamine cover (whatever happened to them?)

It was becoming more and more apparent that I wasn’t going to get involved in a lot of the heavier goings on in the main room but I did regularly pop in to check on the noisy bastards and caught slices of who I think was Agitator, Heart in Hand and Hang The Bastard. All energetic, filthy noise and bloody loud chest-thumping stuff. But, to be fair it’d be disingenuous to dole out reviews as my stays in the bowels of the hadean pit were fleeting and a bit like ‘spotting’ through a vinyl longplayer (ask your dad kids).

And now comes the shocking bit. I’d been looking forward to seeing TRC as one of the potential highlights of the weekend. But I bloody missed them. Due to a cock up on my time planning and a desire to stuff my face with Lamb Hariali (prepared perfectly at the wonderful Shahi Raj***** and washed down with lashings of Mateus Rosé – all class!). A complete shambles. Missing TRC – not the curry, clearly.

So, crest fallen and full of lamb and fizzy 70s Portugese wine I plonked myself in front of a cut-down Evarose***1/2** in the acoustic room. And I have to say, the spacey, chilled vibe appealed to me much more than their normal Paramore-esque pap punk. Dannika Webber can really sing and the set was a every bit as much of a surprise as it was a triumph.

So, still pissed off at missing TRC I steeled myself for the last act of the day. Localish metalcore darlings Bury Tomorrow*****

And I was blown away. As I say, the whole metalcore formula does little for me, but this lot have got it nutted. At the core of their success is the thing that many bands forget – tunes. They’ve got IKEA shopping bags stuffed full of them. 

Yes, there’s a screamer, but Daniel Winter-Bates is an engaging, aggressive, and charisma-steeped screamer (who, since cutting his Bullet for My Valentine chip pan grease-soaked locks looks like Brad Bloody Pitt) and leads his fierce orchestra through a powerful set including the two massive crowd pleasers Royal Blood, and Lionheart dovetailed with older stuff and some new top tunes like An Honourable Reign from the excellent recent album The Union Of Crowns. Impressive stuff.

Let’s not talk about the after party….

Sunday

Shouldn’t have gone to the after party. Uuuurghhhh.

Anyway, restored by a fine Sunday lunch and a bottle of Chianti, time to get involved in the last day of what was rapidly becoming one of my favourite festivals ever.

Daylight Fireworks***1/2** were my first selection from the pick and mix and were pretty sweet. The trio produced a set built on an indie skeleton with impressively buff rock flesh on its bones. Decent tunes, performed with verve and punch and even swapping between bass and guitar. A darned fine start to the day.

Next were Coastlines**1/2*** and they served up a pleasant enough buffet of harmony-drenched pop rock hewn from the same base stone as Canterbury, Natives, Futures et al. Nothing startlingly original but genuinely well played and some great melodies. Too many Telecasters though (personal gripe, but there don’t seem to be enough double coiled planks being spanked these days, the Telecaster with it’s uglier than Simon Cowell’s arsehole headstock is taking over the world. Nyah ha ha.)

Complete change of pace and vibe next. Like a flaming rusty bucket of meths and absinthe spiked with Quaaludes being served at a Chateau Margaux wine tasting, hunk rockers Real Adventures***** are next. And the ragamuffins only go and blow the bloody doors off. Like pissing on a high voltage electric fence or using jump leads on your nob, this band of miscreants wake up the crowd on a sedate Hampshire Sunday afternoon with a full-on blitzkrieg assault of every orifice. 

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this lot several times, but this afternoon, they reach a new level. The electrocuted, meths/absinthe/Quaalude intoxicated crowd throw themselves about with singer Lewis Reynolds in the rusty bucket alongside them even forming the weekend’s first human pyramid. On a sodding Sunday afternoon. Brilliant, raw, indigestion-giving splendidness.

Another act I’d really been looking forward to seeing were Yearbook***** After hearing a fair smattering of their oeuvre on Alex Baker’s magnificent unsigned show on Kerrang! Radio, I was desperate to hear more stuff and to see if they had the live chop I hoped they had.

And I wasn’t disappointed. A crackling, searing, surreal set seduced, assaulted, violated, intrigued and dumfounded the packed room. Thankfully impossible to categorise, they bestride chasms between Weezer, Manchester Orchestra, Tool, Frank Zappa and leak out traces of Mars Volta and Reuben with mathy passages Dillinger would be proud of. One of the absolute highlights of the weekend. Geeky, emotive genius.

In between all the pop 'n' roll, I headed back to the acoustic stage for a wee break to catch a young, inked girl and an acoustic guitar player*****. I'm fed up I didn't catch her/their name. But they were blinding The wee girl's voice was absolutely huge. They re-appeared later in the evening to play the same set again and with equal brilliance. I'd love to know who she/they were/was as I was blown away. (I've just found out they're called Checking Pulse. Wahey!)

On the home straight now. Welsh wunderkinds Straight Lines***1/2** are next to entertain. And they serve up a table groaning with tuneful meatiness. Tom Jenkins’s original and brilliant voice soars over a well-executed and big-boned backdrop. They remind me a little of an early Lost Prophets if they’d had a real singer instead of a vain, image obsessed twat. Good stuff all round.

I sadly missed Sharks. Italian food and a delicious Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc did for them. But I was back to catch the lion’s share of Canterbury***1/2**And, despite a worry that they were going to meld seamlessly into the pop rock flavours and essences of the others of similar vibe (Nativefuturetreasurecoastlines) I was pleasantly surprised at the gap between them and the others. Seriously slick, tuneful but meaty pop-flavoured rock delivered with an adroitness Coldplay would be proud of. Far more energetic than on record, I’ll definitely give them another go as soon as poss. Not world lighting, more of a substantial roaring campfire. With sausages.

To be honest, my age and Olympian booze consumption wads getting to me now and crisp sheets were beginning to beckon me in a whisper at the back of my music-filled bonce. But I couldn’t bow out until I’d seen one of my very favourite live bands on the planet. The Xcerts****1/2*

Murray (The bastard by product of a petri-dish experiment involving Sam from Architects, Tom Petty, Cobain, A Jacamo shirt and an Afghan hound) Macleod leads on his road warriors to a rapturous welcome and drops straight into Do You Feel Safe. And kills it. As always.

Ok, I’m biased, but quite why this trio aren’t more widely successful and huge is beyond me. Their sound is totally original, fusing indie, grunge, pop and proper stand up rock and roll. And live they produce such a massive, arse-wobbling din spiked with beautiful soft cadenzas and fragile, plaintive gorgeouseness. The set had a tooth removed tonight due to Macleod’s trademark Marshall cab having a minor breakdown (replaced by a stonking sounding Blackstar cab) but the overall bite was as classy and fulfilling as ever.

And it wasn’t going to be topped by Futures.

So the allure of the crisp sheets won out and via a minor diversion to see the delicious and stunning Portia Conn***** deliver a delicious and stunning set in the acoustic room I headed back to my hotel. Emotionally and physically spent.

Before I piss off, I’ve got to say Dom Patience deserves the biggest of all big ups. Along with his brilliant team of helpers, aides, security guys and gals and staff at The George, he has served up three of the most incredible days I’ve ever had the pleasure of being involved with. His vision, drive and commitment to emerging British musical talent is as laudable as it is impressive. Despite missing too many bands and consuming more booze than is scientifically possible I struggling to think of a better weekend I’ve ever had.

So he’d better fucking do it again next year. Genius stuff. Genius bloke.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!